The Rancher's Wife

“There isn’t anything going on between us,” he said. Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue Copyright

“There isn’t anything going on between us,” he said.

“You sleep in your room and I sleep in mine. Our conduct is entirely aboveboard.”

“Pretty much so, yes.”

“I only kissed you once.”

“I know.” She hadn’t intended for her voice to hold so much regret.

The silence grew long between them.

“Do you want me to give them some explanation? I guess I could say you’re my sister or a cousin.”

“No. I don’t want to lie. Especially not to a preacher. I hate dishonesty.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head and sighed. “Why didn’t I ever think about this before now?”

Carefully he said, “We could let them assume you’re my wife.”

She looked at him and waited for an explanation.

“It’s what they already believe. No one would question it.”

Elizabeth exploded. “But it’s not true!”

Dear Reader.

This month we’re giving you plenty of excuses to put your feet up and “get away from it all” with these four, fantasy-filled historical romances.

Let’s begin with handsome rancher Brice Graham and his darling baby girl who will undoubtedly capture your affection in The Rancher’s Wife, an emotional new Western by award-winning author Lynda Trent. Critics have described the author’s works as “sensual” and “utterly delightful.” In this pretend marriage tale, an abandoned wife moves in with Brice in order to care for his daughter. Yet complications arise when the two wish to many for real...

Medieval fans, prepare yourselves for a spine-tingling story of forbidden love in Lyn Stone’s latest, Bride of Trouville, about a young widow, forced to marry, who must hide her son’s deafness from the husband she’s grown to love. And don’t miss Conor, by bestselling author Ruth Langan, in which a legendary rogue teams up—permanently—with a beautiful lrish noblewoman to thwart a plot to murder Queen Elizabeth.

If those aren’t enough excuses to curl up with a book, then perhaps half-Apache Rio Santee will entice you in Theresa Michaels’ new sigh-inducing Western, The Merry Widows—Sarah, about two wounded souls who heal each other’s hearts.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historcal®.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave.. P.O. Box 1325. Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Ene, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Rancher’s Wife

Lynda Trent

LYNDA TRENT

Lynda Trent has been writing novels for twenty years, using various pen names. Her time travel romances are written under the pseudonym Elizabeth Crane, and her ghost novels as Abigail McDaniels. Romance and mainstream novels, as well as nonfiction, are published as Lynda Trent.

Among other achievements, Lynda Trent has been awarded the prestigious RITA Award by Romance Writers of America for Opal Fires, a contemporary mainstream romance novel. She has frequently been a RITA finalist for both contemporary and historical romances. In 1985 she won a bronze Porgy for Best Western Novel in the West Coast Review of Books. In 1986, she and her former co-author were named Outstanding Historical Romance Writing Team by Romantic Times Magazine. Translations of her fifty-three books are sold worldwide.

To Courtney Jade Trent—a ray of sunshine

Chapter One

Something hurled itself at the side of the sod hut and Elizabeth prayed the storm hadn’t torn loose more of the barn. It wasn’t a real barn, only a lean-to, not like the ones she had known back home in Hannibal, but it was all the mule had for shelter. Her husband was gone on the horse so the poor mule had only his own body heat to keep him warm in the winter’s first snowstorm.

Nothing had gone as Elizabeth had planned when she married Robert Parkins seven years before. She had been seventeen and eager to escape her tyrannical father at any cost. At the time she had thought she loved Robert and that they would live in a pretty home filled with love and children. But she was twenty-four now with neither home nor child. Only Robert, and her disillusionment, and the sod hut they lived in that was, at best, a dubious shelter.

Robert had won the land in a poker game. Forty acres and a gold mine in the new Oklahoma Territory had seemed like a dream come true. Elizabeth should have known better. In the past seven years Robert had been a clerk, a teller in a bank, a merchant’s bookkeeper, an apprentice wheelwright and a tinker. He never stuck with anything for long and there had been spells between jobs when he had done nothing and she had supported them by taking in washing and ironing. As fast as she could save money, Robert found it and gambled it away. She had buried the last dream when she first saw the mud hut and the hole in the ground that was supposed to be a gold mine.

The storm winds shifted and her shutters rattled alarmingly. Elizabeth put the straight-backed chair in front of them and sat in it, hoping to keep the shutters closed and the storm out. She had always feared storms and was struggling not to become terrified of this one. Robert had ridden into town for supplies but had been gone for a week on a chore that should have taken two days, three at the most.

As always he had put the journey off until they were almost entirely out of food and Elizabeth was eating as little as possible in order to survive until he returned. The nights were the worst. She lay awake for hours at a time worrying that he might have been killed or that he had simply grown tired of a wife, a sod hut and a worthless gold mine, and had left them all behind.

Robert had believed in the gold mine and had been glad there were no greedy neighbors he would have to fend off once he struck it rich. To Elizabeth, who was accustomed to living in town, the absence of people close by had been frightening. They were all alone on the side of a rocky hill, thirty miles from the nearest town and five miles from another living person.

The gold mine had never yielded a thimbleful of gold, even though Robert had worked it steadily—or at least at a pace that was steady for him. Every day, once she had finished the other chores on the place, Elizabeth helped him chip away at the rock and haul out buckets of worthless rubble. All for nothing. Even Robert finally admitted that.

The land was no good for farming and too small to raise cattle, even the longhorn kind that were said to be able to exist on practically no grass at all.

The only level piece of ground was beneath the hut. The roof was of the lean-to variety and was covered with dirt and grass. While it had provided a measure of coolness that first summer, it was always damp, and downright wet when it rained. As a further inconvenience, bugs nesting in the roof frequently burrowed through and dropped onto whatever or whoever was below. The floor was dirt interspersed with rock, as were the walls. Not one single thing was pretty about it, and the constant dampness was already rotting the treasured quilts and linens Elizabeth had brought with them.

The shutters trembled and shoved against the back of her chair, forcing a wider entrance for the icy wind that seemed determined to rob her of what little heat she had left. Fortunately the gust was of short duration and the weight of the chair closed the gap again. Elizabeth had never been so afraid. At least, she told herself, she didn’t have to worry about the hut being blown down since it was built into the hill itself. Assuming, of course, the heavy snow didn’t make the roof collapse.

She refused to cry. Ever since she could remember, Elizabeth had hated to cry. It solved nothing and only made her feel vulnerable. Instead, she tried to work up a sustaining anger against Robert. It wasn’t hard to do. He had had ample time to ride to the town of Glory, buy provisions, get drunk, gamble away the rest of their money and ride home. A man could easily travel thirty miles on horseback in a day.

So where was he? She tried to blame it on the storm. It wasn’t likely that Robert had started for home and been overtaken by the storm. She had seen it building for an entire day before it actually arrived. Robert was good at self-preservation and would not risk being caught in a blizzard just because she was alone and running out of food.

The direction of the storm’s onslaught shifted again and Elizabeth got out of the chair to pace in the small room. There was little furniture to impede her steps. The bed stood against one wall, made bright by her quilts. The table was on the opposite wall, along with the only other chair they owned. A shelf held her meager provisions. In a few short months, the rag rug that once covered most of the wet stone and dirt floor had rotted and had been relegated to the barn for use as rags. She saw no sense in making another.

Her father had been a well-to-do man. Looking back on his house with its clutter of furniture, knickknacks, fringed rugs, pictures on every surface and silently efficient servants, she thought it seemed like a palace. She didn’t miss her tyrannical father but she longed for his dry, comfortable house and her mother, who had been dead since shortly before Elizabeth married Robert.

She knew her mother would have insisted that she stay with Robert. The sanctity of marriage had been drilled into her head since infancy. Divorce was an ugly word, and those who were touched by it were no longer entirely decent people. The wives had failed at the one task God had intended for them, according to her parents, and the men were never blamed. It was always said, or at least implied, that the wife had turned despot or slattern and that the husband had been more or less forced to rid himself of her. But surely, if her mother had known what Elizabeth’s marriage was like, might she not have encouraged her to leave?

There was no use speculating. Her mother was dead and buried in Hannibal. Elizabeth had no place to go. Her father had never loved her and he would be unwilling to take her in. Besides, she didn’t want to go back to the life she had married Robert to get away from. Furthermore, striking out on her own was impossible without money, and Robert had taken all that was left to buy the supplies they would need to get through this winter.

With her lantern in hand, she went to the door and drew the bolt. Cautiously she opened the door a few inches and peered out. The frigid air was thick with wind-driven snowflakes that bit at her face and hands. The snowdrift packed against the door was already two feet deep and more was piling on top of that by the minute. Within a few inches of the door, the dim light from her lantern was swallowed by the blackness of the night and the density of the falling snow.

Elizabeth closed the door again before the rapidly accumulating snow could block it. At this rate, she would be snowed in by morning. How would she get out to the barn to tend to the mule? At least the chickens were long since eaten, so she didn’t have to worry about them being buried under snow in their makeshift chicken coop.

What would she do if Robert never came back? The answer was too horrifying to consider.

Knowing she had to get her mind on something else to save her sanity, she fetched the one book she still owned from the tiny table beside the bed. She had read her copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho so many times that the pages felt soft and fragile. It was the only thing she had taken from her father’s house other than her clothing. This had always been her favorite book and she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Although it was ponderously long, she had memorized pages of it. On nights like this, it was her only friend and companion.

Trying to ignore the howling wind shearing over her low roof, Elizabeth sat at the table, propped up the book in the yellow glow of the lantern and began to read.

Down in the valley Celia Graham glared at her husband and nervously tapped her foot against the floor. “I hate this place!” she said for the fifth time that hour. “It’s just like you to drag me away from everyone I love and expect me to live on this godforsaken ranch.”

Brice gave her a long look. “At the time you were eager to come here and get away from your mother’s interference. And I was under the impression that I was a ‘loved one.’”

“That’s right! Twist my words about. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about anything.” Her lower lip protruded petulantly. She hated being stuck here on this ranch, away from her family and the stores she had taken for granted when they were accessible. She particularly cared that she was eight months pregnant; she was tired of being fat and awkward. “No matter what you say, I’m never having another child,” she snapped.

He glanced up from the ranch records he was completing. “What does that have to do with it? We would have had children if we stayed in Saxon. I miss Texas, too, but you aren’t giving Oklahoma Territory a chance.”

“It doesn’t deserve one.” She looked around the beautifully furnished parlor as if it were a squalid hut. “This place is ugly. Not at all like Mother’s parlor. A man has no idea how to decorate a house.”

“You liked it well enough at first. I recall you gloating and saying you couldn’t wait for your mother to see it because she would be so jealous.”

She hated it when he threw her words back at her. Brice never forgot anything. “That’s nonsense. I’ve never gloated in my life. And to accuse Mother of being jealous!”

Celia hoisted her swollen body out of the chair and glared accusingly at Brice. It was all his fault she had lost her tiny waist—probably forever—and that her hands and feet were swollen and her insides sore from the baby’s kicks. She detested children and she couldn’t wait to have this ordeal behind her.

She waddled to the carved oak desk and dropped down into the chair. Even crossing the room had been an odious chore. She took out pink stationery and dipped her pen in the inkwell. Dear Mother and Father, she wrote.

For the next half hour she poured out all her hatred of Brice and a lengthy description of all the faults of the ranch. That she wasn’t accurate didn’t bother her in the least. She was unhappy and that was all that mattered.

The mellow voice of the mantel clock sounded the hour. Celia suspiciously checked the time with the gold watch she wore on a chain about her neck. The mantel clock was one of Brice’s purchases and she was waiting to discover it in error.

She ended the letter, put it in an envelope and sealed it. Awkwardly she stood and crossed the room to the door. Her house slippers made no sound on the Oriental rug.

In the central hallway Celia stopped and called out, “Consuela!”

A dark-haired woman several years older than Celia hurried to her.

Celia handed her the envelope. “Have Manuel post this tomorrow.”

Consuela glanced at the front door, which rattled beneath the storm’s assault. “There is much snow, Señora Graham. He might not be able to get to Glory tomorrow.”

Celia gave her a cold stare. “You heard my orders, Consuela. A bit of snow won’t hurt your husband.”

“Sí, señora.”

“I’m ready to go to bed now.” She turned and started up the stairs. She didn’t tell Brice good-night, nor did he call out to her, though he probably heard the entire exchange. She had left the door to the parlor open so the room’s heat would be stolen by the near-freezing hall.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Celia was exhausted. She did as little as possible these days; any exercise at all made her heart race and caused a headache to pound in her temples. She passed Brice’s bedroom and went into her own room with Consuela close behind.

She waited impatiently for Consuela to take out her warmest nightgown and turn down the bed’s cover. Although the brazier had been lit, the room was still uncomfortably cold.

As Consuela undressed her, Celia said, “I hate being so fat and ugly. I hate it!”

“No, no, señora. A woman with child is beautiful,” Consuela said quickly,

“Your hands are so cold. Can’t you hurry? As for me being beautiful—that’s horsefeathers!” She thought for a moment “What do your people do to hurry a birth? I’m sure you must have some way.”

Consuela’s hands paused, then she continued unlacing Celia’s dress. “There is no safe way. And you are still a month or more away from your time.”

“I don’t see how a few weeks could matter to the baby and they matter a great deal to me.” She pouted thoughtfully. “There must be some way to hurry this birth along.” Celia was still pondering when she went to bed.

By morning the storm had passed, moving quickly south and east up and over the Ouachita Mountains. Through her window on the south side of the hut, Elizabeth could see that a few muddy clouds straggling behind the fierce storm were just making their way up the foothills. To her immense relief, the sky overhead was making an effort to brighten.

Using her dishpan, Elizabeth scooped most of the snow away from her door and began cutting a path toward the barn. Her progress was slow but relentless. She finally made her way to the barn and was able to tug open the doors.

At first the tiny, dark room was cold and still, and a lump formed in her throat with the thought that she was the only living thing that had survived the night. But then a shuffling sound pierced the darkness and hope rose in her. As her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. she saw her mule in the far corner of the barn still on his feet. When she stepped toward him, the mule saw her and began making a raucous noise of welcome.

She hurried to him and patted his furry brown neck. “I’m so glad to see that you’re all right. I’ve been worried about you.” He snorted and flicked his tail. Beneath her palm she could feel him shivering. “I’m sorry you’re so cold. This barn has cracks in the walls I could put my hand through.” She should have been more insistent that Robert repair the barn before winter came, but how was she to know he would leave and not come back for so long?

“I can’t leave you out here to freeze,” she said firmly. Desperate conditions called for desperate measures. She tipped over the water tub and kicked it until the ice inside fell out.

Carrying the tub with the bag of feed inside and leading the mule, she went back to the hut. The mule balked at going into the house but she tugged on his halter until he reluctantly stepped over the threshold. The hut had been small to start with. With the mule inside it was more crowded that she had thought possible.

“I hope I’m not making a big mistake with this,” she muttered to herself as she tied him to the back wall. “At least he won’t freeze.”

She filled the mule’s tub with snow and put it within his reach. He would have water to drink as soon as it melted. The mule made a poor companion and a smelly one, but she was no longer alone or worried that he was freezing to death in the barn. She put another log on the fire and took up the quilt she was making out of her oldest dress and Robert’s worn shirts. When Robert came home, he would most likely be angry at her having the mule in the house, but Elizabeth didn’t care. She would do whatever she had to do in order to survive.

Another three days went by and Robert still wasn’t home. The snow had partially melted and, with the warming trend, the mule had gone back to his former lodgings. Elizabeth’s entire store of food consisted of two handfuls of commeal, twice that much flour, two strips of dried venison and a handful of beans. Her lamp oil would be gone after another night, maybe two, and she would be left in the dark. She could wait no longer for Robert to return; she had to find food.

She went to the barn and put the bridle on the mule. There was no saddle; the only one they owned was on the horse Robert had ridden to town, but Elizabeth didn’t mind that. She had learned to ride bareback soon after their arrival. With one of Robert’s sheathed hunting knives tucked into the pocket of her woolen cloak and his rifle in hand, she led the mule to the stump she used as a mounting block. The only problem with riding bareback was that if she got off the mule away from the house, she couldn’t always get back on him. But that was just something she would have to deal with.

She swung her leg over his back and as she righted herself astride him and tightened her knees against his ribs, she noticed he was considerably bonier than he had been when she had ridden him last. His feed was almost gone and she had been able to give him only half rations for the last few days. Settling herself as comfortably as possible, Elizabeth nudged him forward. He flicked his ears back and forth in protest but crossed the yard and started down the hill.

Elizabeth had never shot a rifle in her life and wasn’t sure how to take aim on game, but she had to try. If she couldn’t find food she would have to attempt the ride to town and that would be dangerous, because she wasn’t entirely certain of the way. She had only been there once and the Territory had all been so new to her that she hadn’t remembered much about it. At the time she had thought she would have no reason to need this information. She tightened her month and kicked the mule into a trot.

She continued moving downhill because it stood to reason that game would head for the warmer valley below and away from the windswept hills, some of which were almost as tall as mountains in Elizabeth’s opinion. Besides, the going was easier in this direction.

Once she saw a rabbit sit up on its haunches and freeze, its nose twitching, but by the time she put the rifle to her shoulder, it began running away and she knew she had no hope of shooting it with it bobbing and darting about. She also wasn’t too sure what the mule would do if she fired the gun while astride his back. Certainly Robert had never taken him when he went hunting.

For that matter, if she shot anything much larger than a rabbit, how would she carry it home? Even if the mule would stand still while she draped a dead animal over its back, how could she lift a deer that high? She wasn’t even positive she knew how to dress one. She fought back a wave of panic and let the mule pick his own way through the drifts of melting snow.

Several hours later Elizabeth topped a low hill and found herself looking down at the ranch of her nearest neighbors. A two-story frame house stood in a grove of native cottonwood trees, its sides as white as new snow. Behind it was a proper barn—not like the one that housed her mule—and several pens made of unpainted boards. In the corral closest to the barn were horses and a couple of milk cows. Dotting the slopes on the far side were quite a few white-faced cattle, obviously the property of her rather affluent neighbors. The scene was as pretty as a picture in the books Elizabeth had left behind in Hannibal.

Without thinking, she smoothed her dark hair back into its bun and straightened her dress beneath her wool cloak. From the looks of the place, she felt sure their pantry was well stocked. She hated to have to ask for food, but she had no other choice.